


The Chronosynclast

by blubberpatchcumquat (VanillaSkyce)



Series: Within These Temple Walls [2]
Category: Original Work, Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:03:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaSkyce/pseuds/blubberpatchcumquat
Summary: Spinel once again finds herself in the Heart of the Garden.Trapped by circumstance, exposed and beset by adversaries, she finds that even then, they are the least of her problems.For she plays witness to a power far darker than imagination can conceive.And she has no way to stop it.
Series: Within These Temple Walls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289342
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Stand Very Still

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I had something written here that would have made me satisfied, but I know I'm going to look back upon this very moment, with eyes much less weighted by sleep-deprivation than mine are right now, and be disappointed if I wasn't as candid as possible with what I say here.
> 
> This may not be coherent. I sure as hell know it won't be to the casual observer.
> 
> This creation was made with the intent to learn about what makes a mind wonder.
> 
> Thinking is a process, sleeplessness my conduit. This work then, is an exercise in sleepwalking.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here in the Garden, let's play a game...

The charred remains of a starship lies in the Garden, a ruin of metal given over to greenery, a barrow rising out of black soil rich with nitrogen and sentient thought.

Nothing is wasted. Already circuits from beneath the ground have risen to cover the wreck, secreting enzymes that digest metal and melt steel. 

Everything in the Garden becomes of the Garden eventually. Shed leaves decompose and fertilise the soil. Metal is twisted and reshaped into living architecture. 

So too are the bones and unspoken ideas of everyone who couldn’t find the end of the maze.

It permeates the air, like the wordless songs of the Chronites.

They walk between the leaves, encouraging growth, accelerating the timelines of all they touch. In a timeless place, they are the only constants. They weave themselves into the Garden, and the Garden returns the favour. 

Aquamarines patrol the air as their Topazes do on the ground, their vanes wafting in the still air on their endless, untiring rounds. 

The pathways lie dull against the granite. No power runs through them, not since the Diamonds had their war assets decommissioned. But there are many places like these that even Diamonds forget. Places forsaken by time. 

In any case, these hardy gems have long since programmed themselves to auxiliary contingencies. And they will last for as long as their closest sun burns. 

Even without that, they have other means. 

What has happened before is, somewhere, still always happening. What will happen is happening now. 

Soil that lies fallow for a season will recover and produce again. Power that wanes will wax again, if the ground is ready for it. 

The Aquamarines stop where they are, a shudder running through each of them in order of one end of the garden to the other. A flicker. A wash of power, coming from somewhere distant. 

A pulse. 

The power it carries lights up the pathways. The dormant Heart of the Garden stirs for but a moment, under a thick blanket of lichen. 

The power passes through the Garden, overruns gem machinery within it, floods the network beyond it. 

A moment held, like the shore after the tide rushes out. 

Motes of something that isn’t quite dust vibrates in the air. 

The ground hums, a counterpoint to the Chronites' fervent prayers. And the Garden's warp pad vibrates with them. 


	2. Under The Endless Sky

She's had this hallucination before. 

It's not that good, as hallucinations go: Spinel's radio is talking to her, voices rising out of static. She wishes it'd at least use a familiar voice, a Garnet, an Amethyst, she'd even take a Pearl at this point. 

She turns her head towards the radio. Her cheek scraping against the granite. It hurts vaguely, the same way everything does since she got stuck there, muffled from too much time and not enough light.

"You said that already," she tells the hallucination, exasperated. 

It squawks. "I did? When?" 

"Last time," she sighs. "Or the time before." Chronology is a lost art in this cell. "Alert, CG contact band channel two-one-seven-seven dot four-Amethyst-Steven, something something mayday…"

Her voice fades. It hurts to even talk. 

"Say again?" The hallucination has a new voice this time, sharper, shrillier. Almost like Pearl's. "The band number?" 

Spinel rolls over to face the glassy ceiling, spreadeagle, her arm dangling over the side of the litlle flat rock she has been using for a table. Blank as always. She sighs. She's catalogued constellations in its speckles, close enough to see but far enough that she can't feel the light from them. 

"Excuse me, whoever you are?" The first voice is back. "We're calling from CG band two-two-one-seven dot three-Bismuth-Steven. If you were contacted by another Crystal Gem team, we  ** _really_ ** need to know."

"You said that last time too." 

A third voice interrupts "Did the other group use this frequency?" 

They did. Spinel doesn't have the strength to fiddle with her radio lately. Centuries of light deprivation has weakened her gem to the point brittle fragility. She hasn't had the strength for much but counting off meaningless intervals of time, waiting for the next window to chance a message. 

"That's odd," said yet another voice from the squawkbox. "We've tried this frequency a dozen times in the past month. It's never worked before…"

Then what's changed? 

The question shakes her out of her torpor. 

Spinel sits up. The effort sends a wave of the equivalent of what her human friends would call 'nausea' to her head. She repeats the question out loud. 

Maybe it's not a hallucination. 

Maybe she's actually breached the scrambling ionosphere of the Garden somehow. Maybe, just maybe, she finally has a chance. 

"Hello? Hello, are you still there?" 

All she gets is a backwash of static. Whatever that signal was, it's gone. 


	3. Counting The Seconds

She is not she is not she is not she is walking in the Garden.

  
  
  
  
  


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(Watch your back don’t worry about me just grow grow grow)

She sheaths her sword to see she sheathes her sword to drink her blade has rusted into her sheath and she will never pull it out again.

(How bad can it be how bad can you see why don’t you stay and grow grow grow)

A gem is one but one can form many and with enough many a system can overflow. A container changes the shape of its contents but the contents change the nature of the container and the nature is eternity.

(Who knows what that means listen to me can you hear its saying to grow grow grow)

There is a shape that is your mind the shape is potential the shape is infinite the shape is (grow).

  
  
  
  
  
  


W̵̨̢̨̨̩̭͈̤̼̮̹̖̳͇̖̊̅͗́̔̽̌͊̍͐͋͆̈́̿̊͐͑̏̂̓̊̈̓͌̏̿̕̚͝͝͝͝Ë̵͕͈̣͎̞̥̰͇̮̦͙̩̗́͗̏͋͜͜ ̵̡̢̢̢̛̛͎̣͚̪͙̳͇͖͓̠͍̹̹̐̐͂̋̑̏̐̅͊̃͂̃̐̏̐͌̄̐̃̄̾̃̿͛̇̑͊͂̓͒͜͠͠W̷̨̛͉̼̣͈͖̝̹̣͕̜͎̤̭̘̣̐̓̔̊̾͛̊͑̃͆̔̒͆͐͊̊̓͘I̷̢̛̱̝̳͉̘͎͙̘̗̹̦̞̬͍̘̣͎͎̱̳̟̹̪̭̪̪̲̹͓̱̪͔͋̇̈̊͊͑̂͂̾͒̉͗͋̽̐̎̈̂̚͜͜͝͠ͅͅL̴̝̙̺̙͒̂̏͠͝L̶̢̡̨̨̮̦͓̜̮̪̟̮̖̦̜͈̟̲͔̭͔̻̤̩̱͖̘̣͍̞̺̻̯̜̎͊͐̍̽̉͒̈͌͛͜ͅͅ ̶̨͈̲͙̤̞͇̦̜̖̲͔̫̘̘̮̲̮̖͖͇͎̣̲̠̺̘̻͙͎̲͇̹͉̻̼̔͑͒̈͊͂͌̀̆̕̚͜͝Ņ̸̡͍̙̻̱̬̥͓̤̣̬̻̱͓̘̲͕̰͓͚̰̔͌̈́́̎̔̀̊̓͐̏͛̀͑̅͆̽̎̑̋̒̉̔̈́̔̈́̈́̈́̊̐͋͘͝͝ͅO̸̺̤̬̯̬͖̥͎̬̦̩͗̐̓̾ͅT̶͈̣̹̮̙̺͑̈́̅̇̋̎̾͑͘̕ ̶̡̧̨̧̡̦̙̖̻͍̹̼̫͔̮̖̙̩͙̮̞̻̘̩̣̱͕̩͈͙̰͍͂͠B̷̡̤̞̲̦̣̺͍̠̦̟̳̯͗̇̋̑͑̏̽͆͌̊̌̑̍͋̋̑͌̉̂̒̍̆̀͘̕̕͘̕͜E̷͍͕̝̲̯̬̥͚̜͈̜̯̦̗̲̍̏͑̌͋̿̑͗̈̊̋̏̚̚̕͝ ̶̢̨̨̦̭̥̥̦͈̻̱̟͖͈̮̖̪̤̮͉̼̦̰̪͍̖͕̟̻̘̲̭͋̉̿̾́̏̐̃̓͐́͑̆̃̋̅͒͆̐̅͂̕̚̕̚͠͠ͅS̷̨̡̡̢͙̲̪͇̝̹̘̠̺̣̥͚͓̺͙̗̭̭͍̳̥̿̄̊̐́̈́͆̀̈́̈͑̍̅̌̃̍̽͜͝ͅͅĮ̶̡͓̪͙͕̜͖̹̱̘̗̹̻̰̮̘̰̤͙̇̌͂͑̾͒̄̌̇̄̊̑̏̊͛̽͒̀̎́͒̈́̂̆̕̚̚̕͜͠L̶̡͉̥͕̲̥͖̞̲̦͓̳̣͔̖̙̰̏̇̐͜Ė̸̻̣̳̪͉͓̪̐N̶̢̮̗̜̲͍̪̜̱̺̯̮͇͇͚̙͚̱̝̩̤͊̉̉̋̿̇̍̔͊̽̎́́̚ͅC̸̨͓̳̗̞̯̩̦̝̳̙̫̳̘͇̳̭̮͖̞̲̳͕̙͖̹̠͋E̵̡̢͈͕̭̜̩̺̩͈̣̩̗͚̲͙̹̟̪̠͕̙̻̲̪͉̻͊̄̐̈́̂̌̃̾͆̈́̊̎̀̑̈́̾͂̆̅͊̈̕̕͝͝͠ͅḌ̷̺̮̥͊̒̓̀̎̈́͠͝ ̵̡̲̟̥̭͓̖̦͕̦̩͎̝̦̞͍̜̯̮̣̣̯͎͓̹̯̟̜͎͈̼̯̙̦̗̼̆ͅW̸͖̬̞̮͓̮͕̜̯̠̜͋̔̽̏̿͗̌̉̈̌͑͋͜͝ͅͅȨ̵̧͎̦͖̘͈͎̬̻̯̱̥͎͉͔̂̒̐̅̆̃̃̓̇͒̆̍̿̐̄̕͘͜͜͠ ̸̡̨̢̮̥̩̮͚̩͍̱͍̻̱̜͓̜͖̖̬̣̼̮͚͕̰̹͚̻̍͋̂̉͌͊̋̀̂̕͘͜ͅW̷̧̡̨̡̛̙͔̜̝͇̖̟̞̩͍͇̖͖̲͕̭̖̞͍̳̫̣͑̏̅̐̽ͅͅĮ̵̼̲̖͇̜̫͉͉̮̳̤̲͖͎̪͎̳̹͇̼̘̣̦̫̫̰̎͛̍͌͑̍͆́͌̑͂̽̓͑ͅL̵̼͇̗̰̻̻̭̯͙͙͎͔͕̪͇͖̘̔̃̓͆͌̃̇̉̈̈́̆̔̉͆̈́̀̕͘͜͜͝L̶̡̲͈̣̺̞̳̬̠̱̭̻̈́̍͊̇̍͛͌̿̃͝ ̶̡̢̧̧̛̩̫̺̗͕̣͔̣̙̥̫̜̫͔̜̆̌̽̈̃̎̏̈́̏̈́͋̓̈̏̐́̉͆͛͛̿̈́͑̅̇̀͋͗̇͘̚͜͜͠͠͠Ņ̶̡̥̮̗̣̥͓̲̺̫̻̩̹͌̆̆͌̿̇̃̄̋͌̌̒̅̔̎̄͗̓͌̉̐̑͊͋͌̈́͆̏̆̔͛̈̏̈́͘E̵̢̧̧͕̫̠͎͔̞̜̘͓̹̗͕̝̠̲̼̲̳̯̠̰̺͂́̄͗͗͝͝͝V̴̳͎̱̘̱̤̮͇͚̦̺̤̘̩̻͎̣͚̟̮̻͉͕͉͔̲̙͉̪̅̎̔̈̿̍̆̄͜͝Ę̴̧̞̗̗̞̙̖͕̣͔̤̣͖̣̪̻̞͉̟̤͑̎̇͆̊̅̾̄̿̇͌͐͊͛̎̽͆͐̚ͅȐ̵̢̢̧̢̛̖̤̲̥̩̺̘̲͉̼̯͓̠̥̼̤̻͕̭͓̖͈̜̘͉̘̲̓̽̊̅̏̒̊͂̽̔̀́̔̈͑̕̚̚͠ͅͅ ̴͖̟̼̘̳̥̬̣͔̄̆͗̋̒̌̅́͝Ş̴̡̭͓̖͕̭̝̳̗̞̜͕͈͚̠͇̹̬̼͇̓͐͊͌͜͜͜T̵̨͈̙͙̭̭̮̠̟̞̗͕͔͛͋̽͐Ơ̸̢̲̺̗̯͉̼̠͙̪̪̘̞̠̳͓̖̤̯̞̥͓̥̣̻̥̦̎͐̉̓̇̿͗̽̑̏̓́͂̿̀̇̑̓̇̄̋̓͛̈́̄̚͝͝͝P̶̡̢̡̢̛̛̹͉̮͈̥̱̪̳͓̱̖̣̮͖͙̗͚̪̖̭͒͑̿̌̓̑̄̿̓͐̃̃͛͑͊́̌͐̒͂̉͑̇͋̊͘͘͜͝͝͝ͅ ̵̨̢̨̪͙̞̱͕̰̰̯͓̪͕̙̣̥͎̘̰͈̏͗̃͆͗̐͑̅͋͗͋̏̉̓̏F̵̢̯͈͎͈̗̫̝̟̹̰̝͖͇̙̤͖̞͊͂̇̉̽̀̀͌͐̾̔͂̐́̈́̉͊̉̄͛̍̆̄͗͗͋͐̆̕̕͝͝I̵̡̨̧̤̝̲͈̖͎̼̩̩͓͎̰̰͍͔̝̥̯̙̩̼̘̹̲̦̮̺̖̮̣͊̂̉̂͗̉͋͐̅͐̈́̓͘͜͜G̸̢̢̧̻̭̬̻̻͔̗̰̻̝͓̬͍͙͚̹̥̖̬̮͙̹̺̰͖̼̃̍̊͑̇͋͘͜͝͝H̵̡̧̬̝̣̣̹̘̫̫̭͇̙̝̲̥̱͍͊͒͌̓͜͜ͅŢ̷͓̟̖̪̝͚̳̩̬̩̣̹̦̺̹̜̣̜͈̼͆̽͋̓̈́̈́͜ͅI̴̧̧͇̣͕͚̩̯͔͎̺̤͔̜͔̘̝̻̺̟͖̪͆̋̌̾͊̈́̉͌̋̂͘͘̕͝͝Ň̴̢̢̹̼͚̮͍̘̩͎̦̣͓̲̱̻̳̘̖̳̭G̵̨̡̢̰̮͓͇̫̖̩̺̹̙̦̬͚͔̦͈͉͍̜͖̩̹͓͇̤͎͌͌̿͗̅̅͜͠ͅ ̵̢̰͕̲̩̗̰̝̤̖͎̙̗͙̱͊̐̈́͊̊̀̾͝͝͠W̶̢̢̡̛̖͕͍̦̟͍̬̱̖̫̺̖̼͔͎͔̱̹̮͚̗̦̗̩̲͍̏̃̌̈̉̾̍̑̑̊̓̈́͗̓̀̽̅̈́̈͛͊̄͗̔̎̌̋̔͊̊̒̒̈́͘͜͝Ę̸̛̛̯̘̠͓̘̜̩̞͇̥̂͛͗̋͂̒̎̾͌̈̎̅̌̿̒̊̄̀͌͆̇̾͗̆̒̏͌͑̕̕ͅ ̵̦̠̮̩̫̦̘͕̪̝̺̈́͂̀̏͌̈́͊͒͋͋͆̈̋̌̌̐̂̀͗̌̋͌̋̈́̆͌̍̈́̕͘͘͝͝W̷̧̡̛̗̭̱̰̣͈͚̤͔̖̤̤̞̹̜̦̻̼͓̳̩̟̺̬̄̈̅̈́̊̈́͂̅̀͒̈͊̿̈́͜I̴̢̨̡͕͚̝̬̠̖̭̹̩̗̲̬̩̩̭̰̝̣̦̦̗̙̝̼̥̬̠̦͉̫̓̆̂̒̈͂̆̿̽̏̇̚̚̚͜͜͝L̶̛͎̯̭̰̭̤͚̠̈́͌͑́̋͒̂Ļ̸̡̢̛͉͇͉̥̻̞͍͇̥͛̄ ̵̮̩͍͇̪͇͓͌̿̏̓́̌̓̚͠S̸̢̛̮̻̫͔͉̅̾̎̍͋͛͘͘̚̚Ó̵̤̗̫͙̟͙̺̰̣̞̽͌̈́̆͐͋͛͂̾̎̂̏̋̃̈́͋̄̈́̏̈͋̋͐̐͗̐͝ͅǪ̷̳̦̖̖̞̬̭̼͙̥̟̰̭̭̖̺̜̱͈̱̟̗͖̜͓̈͊́̀͗̈́͝Ń̵̨̧̦̰̺͓̹̻͇̖̠̗̠̘̙͕̦͈̳͙̽̐͊̎͗͒͂̃̈̃͒͊̉͒̔̈̃͛̎͘̚̚̚͜͝ͅ ̷͔͌̆͂̄̓̑̓̋̃̈̈́̈́̄̔̂̒͘͝͝͝B̵̨̨̛̛̛͍͚͚͖̱̖̼̙͇̪͓̙͆̾̏̌͛͛̒͌̇̍̍͛̋̍̈͐̀͗͂̇̍͠͝͝ͅĘ̷̢̢̣̙̻̟̙͚̜̼̫̞̺̙͕̞̰͉̘̦̣̤̖̥̰͙̭̦̆̆͊̊̋̔̈́͌̔̓̂̈́̎̀̌̅̚͘͜͠͝ ̴̧̨̫̻̩̗̪̭̟̹̻̤̠̬̜̗̌̍̒̋̍͑̿̎͗͌̽̄͜͝͝F̸̨̢̡̛̰̫̜̮̯̯̬̟̜̮̜̰͙̯͉͖̳̈́̈́̈́̉̓͗̒̈́͑́͋̽̒̈́̎̇̊̓̂͆̆͗͋͆̓͋̽͊̈́̔̎͠͝͝R̴̢̢̛̖̺̗̙̹͖̜̝̮͚̞̹̳͈̤̹̾͗̽́͂̅̍̍̑̽̐̐̈́̔͆̕͘͝͝͝ͅͅE̶̢̢̧̧̨̨̫̟̣͓̭̙̤̘͓̬̲̫̋͐̆̑̊̈́̾͗̓̋̋̒͒̀͒̔̑̋̃̋͗̇̄̽͂̆̾͑̚̕̚̕͝͝ͅE̵̛̛̥̗̙̣͙̟͍͋̓̃̀͂̐̈́̽̊̂̕

  
  
  
  
  
  


She has lived for too long and has dived too deep and the cuts in her mind will never heal.


	4. And Then She Smiled

Spinel has watched from her cell for longer than she knows how to quantify. 

Years of organic life had acclimatised her to a far more ephemeral measurement of time. Its unbearable to think of another year. Yet she's been here for centuries. 

She’s seen so many different timelines, there’s no way to know which are real.

From a certain point of view, they all might be.

Some things she recognises. She sees the Sun often, though she can’t feel its light in her cage. Sometimes it hangs over a seaside town so familiar it makes her heart ache. Sometimes it hangs over an alien sky, and foreign shapes make airy loops around it-- Gems of unrecognisable make.

Some visions she gets once, while some come back over and over again. She wonders if this is how Sapphires see and how they put up with it all. One recurring image: A giant injector, still pulsating and pumping bio-poison into the Earth, with a small figure standing in front of it. The figure changes every time, but the ominous malevolence of the injector doesn’t.

Once, she sees a vision of herself. Straight-shouldered, warm in the Terran sun, standing between her two closest friends. Pink Pearl’s necklace is familiar, it’s one Spinel helped to make. She had a defter hand with elasti-point fibreglass than Pink Pearl ever did. She had worn that necklace for barely six decades before it was shattered in the Cloud Arena. She remembered laughing for five hours straight at how profusely she kept apologising. The gift she’d given to her had meant that much.

The thought makes her weep, desiccated as she is, she didn’t think she had it in her.

The Garden shows her Earth again and again, recognisable only from the scale of the sun in the sky. Sometimes there’s rubble hanging in space, a planetary ring still forming. Sometimes there’s nothing at all, and even stranger, sometimes she can make out the most peculiar constructions. Just once, though she had long written it off as a trick of the eye, she saw a huge red barn floating by on a bed of water.

Spinel wouldn’t mind the visions so much if she could only feel the warmth of that colossal sun. It’s always so cold here in her lightless garden cell.

She sees waves and waves of aliens cross the solar system’s threshold, emerging into the light from outside the heliopause. Some of them travel with the air of eager, conquering armies, paint fresh and banners snapping. Some of them move as if they're on the run from something behind them, out in the galactic dark.

She watches the movements of the newer gems, learning to tell them apart. The diminutive blue ones with faerie-like wings, the brassy-coloured ones with long blunt rebars, the ones with glowing white eyes. Occasionally, scattered among them are pockets of gems stained with verdigris, their arms trailing shawls of moss. Clear imperfections for any gem. Yet, all the other gems keep away from these ones. Twice, she’s seen the mossy gems fight the other ones, each time ending swifter and more brutal than the last. It seems as though the other gems are frightened of them, as frightened as gems can be.

Some timelines have veils drawn over them, a darkness too thick to see through. They push back against Spinel’s attempts at sight, resisting.

All the timelines she sees could be true for some living thing. She doesn't know which are true for her. She doesn't even know if that's a meaningful question to ask.

She asks it anyway, and she keeps looking. There's no reason not to.

She's got all the time in the world.


	5. That's What I'm After

The pulses are stabilizing. The voices come often enough now that Spinel has been introduced to their owners: A Lapis Lazuli, a Chaorite, a Black Star Diopside and a Pearl. Not infinite mirrored variations of them from different timelines, but simulations all split off the same base, way back in what must have been the very start of Era 1. Some have grown far different from their progenitors.

Some have not.

“We have to base our modifications on the new ansible system,” says one of the Pearls. She’s either from 227.03 or 227.304. The voices have been bickering for what feels like hours.

“The ansible is a thought experiment! It was proved impossible!” says another. Some people, Spinel has heard, are their own worst enemy. In the case of Pearl, this might be right.

“That is  ** _exactly _ ** why we have to do this! An impossible machine could be the only thing that gets us out of this impossible prison!”

A brief silence.

“So how do you propose we build this?”

Finally, a decent question. Spinel jumps in. “ ** _Finally,_ ** ” she sighs. “Make a girl wait why don’t cha? We’ll start with what I’ve got with me. It’s not much, but it’s just enough to--”

She continues on. She’s managed to establish contact to six groups of them, all based in remote slipspace networks in the dead zones of the Garden. Maybe even at its entrance, Spinel surmised. There are more of them further out both in the solar system and in the main information networks: up to two hundred and twenty-one more, apparently. There must be a way to contact them too, to use whatever let them connect with her and go even further, till they can figure out why now and what's happening. What the Chronites are doing.

"What do you have with you?" That's Lapis, Lapis Lazuli. Brisk. The others listen to her when she speaks.

She has three solid weapon constructs. Made by Bismuth, not a hard-light construct of her own. Two boxes of physical ammunition, and one of conductive energy crystals she’s been using to power her own gem. She’s long since abandoned her clothing, it took up unnecessary energy. Dignity took a backseat. In her pockets, she’s got lint and the wrapper from a candy Pink Pearl had tossed at her head as a tease a half-hour before she set off on her journey back into the Garden. It’s worn soft, folded into the shape of a crane. No Pearl. Her loss is the one thing she’ll never get used to after all this time in the cell. She still wakes up some days expecting the small weight of her chin resting on her shoulder. 

“Anything to etch circuitry with?”

“Could ya give me a minute?” She’s jerry-rigged a crude laser from the projector of her last Rejuvenator. 

While she works, all the Pearls hold their own discussion. 

"If Spinel exists physically, even if the space she's in isn't strictly real, she has accesses we don't. And vice versa. Maybe together we can get something to work."

“If you believe her story about this “Earth”,” one of them says, doubtful--227.17’s Pearl. She’s more skeptical than the others.

“Well, I’ve believed in weirder!” one of them says cheerfully. She pauses and adds, “Do you remember the first thing we saw the Chronites do?”

“Go for Lapis’s gem?”

“No--jump into that frame. Clear through the air.”

Six Pearls rattle their fingers against their comms devices in unintentional polyphony, thinking.

“Think we’re close enough to those freaks at this point to use one of their tricks?” quips Chaorite.

227.18’s Pearl turns wry. “What’s a little more tight-rope walking between friends?”

Spinel lifts her head from her makeshift 3D laser printer for a moment.

“How much of a chance do we have of this working?” murmurs Diopside, the quietest of the group.

“Errrr, well, let’s put it this way. Ever found the answer when you divide by zero?”

“Oh.”

Spinel doesn’t have enough scavenged parts for two runs. It’s one or the other, a choice they can’t undo, a moment before a fixed point.

They take a vote; Spinel marks the tally with screws on two adjacent flagstones.

227.18’s Pearl gives the first aye.

It’s unanimous.

They’re taking the leap.


	6. Isn't That Lovely?

Hey you. Yeah, the you that’s reading this.

Indulge me for a minute. Are you listening?

Okay. Here’s what I want you to try and do.

I want you to try and describe time for me. No, really. Give it a go.

  
  


I know what you’re gonna say next. You’ll say something about it being a sequence of events, right? Seconds sliced off a clock, marching one by one into infinity. Go ahead, use your metaphors. A line. A loop. A flat circle. Someone once told me it was like a river. At least  ** _that _ ** was a novel answer. 

The Chronites, they’re the closest to understanding it. They’ve got some real, tangible connection to it. If time’s a river, then we’re fish and they’re like diving birds. What’s wet mean to a fish? What does it mean to a heron, who’s never been fooled by refraction over a water’s surface?

Hold on, now you're gonna say, hey, slow down, won’t cha? I've been struggling to make sense of this whole thing as it is. This hasn't been easy to follow, even for the bodiless echo of a cracked gem in the Garden. You want concrete truths? Something digestible? Something to keep the dark out? 

Ohhh I see. You want it to be simple. You want time to be a staircase we keep climbing forever. But see, even a gem skips back a step or two now and again. We get poofed, and our gems will just regenerate us right back to before the poofing, give us a chance to make a fate we like better. But nothing’s ever been simple anymore since that half-gem half-human hybrid rolled around from the next neighbourhood over. And a loooot of people are gonna fight that change. 

Now you’re gonna say : But Steven is our friend, he adores us, he’s ushered in a new golden age. A future that’s both brighter and more hopeful than anything we were ever allowed to imagine. You’re gonna say ‘without him, we wouldn’t be alive at all”. Tsch.

Without him, I wouldn't be stuck here in the Garden making bets with myself on which Chronite’s going to be the next to slip on a soggy leaf and fall off a cliff, either. You took my Light already; you'd better take my advice.

I know, I know, the life we’ve got now’s a damn sight better than the deal we weren’t even offered by the Diamonds eons ago. But this is different-- I’ve come untethered. I know that these final moments are my last. So, if I’m right and I  ** _am _ ** reaching you, you keep your damn ears open, I don’t care how much you’ll hate hearing it. This is important.

The Chronites understand time in a way we never will. Doesn’t matter how long I spend here, watching them. Doesn't matter how many jury-rigged warp pads Crystal Gems fling themselves through. We live in time. They use it as a tool. Any moment that's ever happened, any moment that will ever happen, they can go back to it. Play it again till they get it right. Simulate it.

Do you see the danger here? The imminent threat? What good is a triumph when it can be reversed? What good is a victory when it can be rewritten? This is a kind of power that has never been seen before, and it’s source, long forgotten, carries with it the untampered, hateful directives of an era eons past. Only four have come before it.

This universe will not be ready for a fifth.

Oh, but you don’t  ** _want _ ** to understand the Chronites. You don’t  ** _want _ ** to understand the Heart. Is your ignorance any more forgivable when it’s willful? 

Too many questions. Not enough answers. Better take care now, darling, or you’ll drown in them. As surely as you’ll drown in time, whether it’s anything like a river or not.

You see?


	7. Happy To Listen. Happy To Stay

The pulses from outside the Garden come quicker now. More copies of the Stranded Gems arrive, using the trace signatures of each preceding warp pad as a signal boost, leapfrogging in from the dark.

Their messages  ** _are _ ** getting out there, out to the ends of the Chronite Networks.

The pulses are getting strong enough that Chaorite thinks they have a chance to boost data even beyond the network to physical reality—whatever "physical reality" means to them and to Spinel at this point, lifetimes deep in chronosynclastic projections.

Spinel’s attuned to the rhythm of the Garden though. When another pulse lines up with a momentary weakness that lets her radio work, she pushes a message through with all her might.

It doesn’t bounce back. That means it’s gone through. She whoops raggedly, lifting a limp flexible arm in triumph, and a dozen Stranded Gems return the cheer. 

They start to send messages scattershot, wherever they can, wherever the pulses climb high enough to boost their signal. That works for a while. Then the pulses get too strong, strong enough to destroy the integrity of the messages. Instead of skimming along the top, riding the wave, the messages shake and tumble apart, overwhelmed by its power.

If they're getting strong enough to unravel data, it could be they're getting strong enough to carry something heavier than a pile of code.

It's worth a try, Spinel thinks. Anything is, at this point. Something is coming, a tidal wave's shadow looming over every timeline she can see. Its peak rises sharp over the Earth, breaking the terminator's arc with a deeper darkness. Steven and the Crystal Gems can't escape it.

Spinel carves messages into the last functional pieces of her gear: anything that can serve as a bottle for her messages, thrown out on time's ocean. And what does a Crystal Gem pay more attention to than their equipment? They'll catch someone's eye, somewhen.

She knows the wave is coming. More visions flicker past her now, burning afterimages into her eyelids. More timelines—a possibility or eventuality, she doesn't know—lost to the encroaching dark.

She knows they won't be able to handle it alone. She knows they need a warning. They need to know it's coming.

Soon.


	8. Isn't That Cruel?

_ 227.48 _

Here’s how it goes: you and Lapis and Chaorite and Diopside take your first, cautious, sliding steps out into the Chronite Information Network. You get your footing. You've got to translate everything into metaphor to understand it, here, and this is like tightrope walking on a greased line. You and Lapis lean into each other. Chaorite slips, and you help her up. You explore. You go on.

_ 227.8 _

Here's how it goes: you and Lapis and Chaorite and Diopside take your first cautious steps out into the Vex information network. You've got to translate everything into metaphor to understand it, here, and this is like doing a Fourier transform on yourself down the blade of a sundial. You fumble a step, and Chaorite and Black Star Diopside hoist you back up between them. You come up with a pair of scuffed knees, but it's fine. You explore. You go on.

_ 227.21 _

Here's how it goes: you all take your first confident steps out into the Chronite information network. Lapis says it feels like trying to get up a mountain on half a water-wing. Diopside makes grim pronouncements about avalanches, but she does this from a step ahead of you. You're all eager to get started.

You come to a place that's a simulation of a world you don't recognize—hills rolling with grain that's just faintly iridescent, the color of their stalks an echo of the purple sky. Something in the distance calls out—a bird, maybe. Something that might be a hand ship lies on the distant horizon, like a still mannequin discarded on the ground. It's spiderwebbed with cracks. No light emerges from it.

Diopside walks too quickly, not testing the ground. She's gone before you can blink—fallen through an unseen edge of the simulation. When you move to where she disappeared, tilting your head at a certain angle makes the world give itself over to empty black with glowing wireframe edges that don't do anything to illuminate it. Tilt your head back, and there's nothing but purple wheat and the far-off call of an unknown bird.

"We have to go after her," says Lapis, "we can't just leave her—"

You're all still shocked, faces drawn. Chaorite bends for a rock, squints, and tosses the stone underhand at the edge of the simulation. It disappears before it can hit the peak of its arc. She shakes her head.

You and Lapis repeat the experiment, heads cocked like nervy sparrows. When your rocks hit void, they disintegrate first into wireframe and then into that black nothingness.

You retreat. You put up a marker at the rise of a hill, for all the good it'll do. You mourn. You go on.

_ 227.89 _

You lose Chaorite. 

_ 227.6 _

You lose Black-Star Diopside. 

_ 227.9 _

You lose Black Star Diopside. 

_ 227.41 _

The four of you cobble a radio together to contact the other teams. Every night, when you stop to rest, you click through the channels, hoping another team has had the same idea. On a cliff made of glass, topped with a thin layer of sandy earth and a thinner layer of grass, you get a response that's nearly intelligible.

You rest the next night at a seashore under the glass cliff. You wake up before dawn at the sound of screaming. You don't have time to find out what's happening before it happens, very finally, to you.

_ 227.92 _

You lose Lapis.

_ 227.23 _

You lose Lapis.

_ 227.132 _

You lose Lapis.

You mourn. The thought of all the other Lapises out there doesn't help. They weren't the Lapis Lazuli you'd puzzled with over living basalt flowers, a world with seventeen moons, a nebula that Chaorite had sworn up and down was the fabled Pillars of Creation and that Black Star Diopside couldn't be dissuaded from calling Homeworld’s Cradle. You'd found a simulation with a planet where you discovered an abandoned city rich with organic life, picked out a garland of flowers, brought it home to her, and wished her a happy pseudo anniversary.

Lapis didn't like trinkets, said they always fouled her work. Her hair had been getting shaggy again and was due for a trim. She never could decide on just one hairstyle. She laughed at you practising swordsmanship to maintain simulated muscle, but she dueled with you all the same.

There are other Lapises out there, layers of them, all the way up to the original, wherever she is. You hope they're doing well. But that doesn't stop you from missing this Lapis, missing whatever arguments and discoveries you'd have shared in the rest of the lifetime you'd promised to one another.

Chaorite and Diopside pull you up from beside Lapis’s marker. A basalt lily rests on top of it, petals thin enough to let light through.

You go on.


	9. Drift Away

With startling suddenness, a surge of power galvanises the Garden, and the dormant Black Heart wakes with it. As hard light gives it shape, it shrugs off a millennia of vines and hanging moss like bedsheets. 

Circuits thrum with power, passing the excess along to the next in line, as the nascent gem, only just beginning to understand its purpose, expands its consciousness. Aquamarines write more circuits and weld them to the Heart, building it up to take advantage of the power—not an occasional pulse now, but a steady beat. Their faith has been rewarded.

Somewhere else, one hundred and eighty-three sets of simulated Era 1 gems flex their own limbs, ready to make a break for it. Spinel, kneeling at her radio, shakes out her hands. They're stiff—she's stiff, queasy with exertion and worry and a stack of lifetimes in a cell—but ready.

"How big is a transistor compared to a pin, do you know?" She can't tell which Pearl is speaking. There are one hundred and sixty-five of her spread between the teams.

“Are you calling me an angel?” This is Lapis, amused. Spinel knows which team it is now. 227.72’s Pearl sounds a little hoarser than the others. She doesn’t know why.

Pearl, again. “Would you like to dance, milady?”

Chaorite snorts in hundred-part harmony, and eighty Diopsides grin and elbow her in the metaphorical ribs.

It’s a slim chance, but a chance is all they need.

The Garden's massive warp pad hums, an echo of the song the Chronites sing as they tend the flowers. The first Topaz readies herself to step through, shield coming awake around it.

Everything that has happened is, from a certain point of view, always happening. Everything that will happen is happening. If you know how to slice the ribbon of chronology thin enough, you can step through to the necessary moment. If you know how to tear it…

A hundred and sixty Pearls reach for the Lapises by their side. The hands of a hundred and fifty-eight Lapises reach back.

One Spinel, waiting for the conductor's baton to drop. Uncountable gems in the Garden, waiting for the same event, a synchrony none of them notice.

Somewhere, a veil is always lifting.

Somewhere, Pink Pearl is always sacrificing herself.

Somewhere, a door is always opening.

Somewhere, they are always failing.

But somewhere, they are always stepping through.

**Author's Note:**

> The other chapters are devoid of author's notes, I suppose I'll add them when I'm a little less sleepy, sighpie.


End file.
